Wairwolf
by Vathara
Summary: Not all Hollywood monsters are fantasy... crossover with Something Is Out There
1. Default Chapter

****

Wairwolf

A/N: Airwolf belongs to Bellisario and Universal, Sentinel concepts to UPN and Pet Fly, Something Is Out There to Columbia Pictures, Radio Shack to Radio Shack. Something Is Out There show summary is in the last chapter, if you're lost. Airwolf is AU (moved ahead about twenty years). This story occurs a few weeks after "Talking with Wolves". 

~*~*~*~*~  
"And... action!" 

A shot-up cherry-red Ferrari screeched around the busy street corner, pursued by a helicopter that glimmered shark-gray against the sky. Smoke trailed from both vehicles, dark hint of the battle still raging. Hint that turned to deadly promise, as the desperate woman in the Ferrari's passenger seat tossed up a clayey brick of olive gray-green, aiming dead-center for the chopper's windshield. 

A telephoto lens zoomed on the look of insane glee on the dark-haired pilot's face; zeroed in on the flash of horror as he caught sight of the ruby LED display counting down-

"Cut!" Mitch hovered behind the head cameraman a moment longer, picturing how the FX studio would cut this film into a miniature shot of a chopper exploding. Angle, light... all _right_. 

Jumping down toward his director's chair, Mitch went so far as to grin. He cast a moment's glance toward the gray-haired man with a headset cinched over his red ball cap, still coordinating between the stunt chopper and the chase helicopter getting the aerial shots. Santini Air might cost more than your average chopper wranglers, and they might be hard on stars who only thought they could fly, but man, they got things right the first time! "Good work, people! Joshua-" He gave the descending chopper a brisk thumbs-up, using his megaphone to cut through the rotor noise. "Great work, kid, the camera loved it!" Mitch waved a circling hand. "All right, let's get this circus packed and out of here-"

A barefoot blonde extra shrieked, running from stage right as if hordes of crazed fanboys were hot on her heels. Veteran of a dozen summer slasher flicks, Mitch automatically characterized the scream; short, a bit high, but good carrying volume. 

Too bad this was supposed to be a spy thriller, the director thought, stalking toward the noise with mayhem on his mind. Ah well, this wasn't the first time Casting had screwed up-

Blood was a bright crimson stain across the dark jacket of the suited man crumpled at the edge of the set alley; a wet arrow toward a steely hilt embedded between two ribs. He might have been a hapless victim-actor off any one of the hordes of B-movie thrillers being made here; possibly drugged, probably drunk, definitely lost. 

He might have been. But something in the way Santini blanched - something in the way Santini's chief pilot suddenly slapped that stunt chopper on the ground, using rotor downdraft to herd onlookers away before he touched skids to asphalt - told Mitch he wasn't. 

"Aw, _hell_." 

~*~*~*~*~  
_I was your average street cop. Name: Jack Breslin. _

Then I met your average not-bad-looking alien from another planet, who crashed on Earth and was stuck here. 

We work pretty well together. 'Cause, I know my way around, and - well she can read minds. Among other things.

~*~*~*~*~  
_So this is how the people of this planet make their entertainment_, Ta'ra thought, approaching the yellow tape around the scene. She went through the ritual of displaying her crime scene analyst's identification to the young uniformed officer guarding the scene; he waved her through with a nervous smile. _Odd. It looks very different from their documentaries_.

Of course, that might have something to do with the body sprawled in the midst of the set. 

__

Did you see that... oh my god... miss my hairdresser's... blood everywhere... delay's going to cost us thousands... Dead? You mean dead _dead? Really?...._

The former med-tech officer of the prison ship _Andulon_ winced, trying to sort useful information from the chaff of odd thoughts floating through the air. The Earth TV shows she'd watched had never hinted at this morass of psychic noise. Who'd have known the people of this planet couldn't thought-process? The vast majority of them couldn't even project clearly, not like-

A dry, ironic mind-voice cut through the cacophony. _Offhand, Ta'ra, I'd say somebody didn't like this guy very much_. 

Ta'ra hid a smile, placing her kit on a patch of empty street. Definitely Jack. "What do we have?" 

"Colonel Mustard on the roof with a letter opener." Detective Jack Breslin was crouched by the impact site, carefully avoiding bits of unidentifiable matter from the height-crushed skull. Dark brows drew down into serious concentration, fragments of thought swirling past her, Jack's mind comparing this scene to innumerable other homicides - not a few of which they'd investigated together, since she'd found herself stranded on this planet. 

Despite the grisly scene, Ta'ra had to laugh. At least this _was_ a body, and not more of the bits of unidentifiable bone the rest of Robbery/Homicide had dropped in their laps the past few months. "Jack, be serious."

"Who's not being serious?" He skewed a glance over toward the shivering blonde with the paramedics. "Lady over there, Enrika Dion, says she saw an older guy with a real military look to him skulking down that alley a few minutes before a body fell out of the sky." He nodded toward the metal handle sticking out of the wound, placed to intersect the edge of a human heart. "Silver, looks like. Who stabs a guy with a silver knife?" 

"Then threw him off a roof?" Ta'ra kept gathering bits of evidence, letting her partner "think out loud", as Earthlings put it. _Odd phrase_. "Which roof?" 

"Not sure yet." 

Which meant he _was_ fairly sure, but needed to check his own perceptions. Jack had a talent most natives of this planet lacked; the gift to see what was truly there, no matter how badly it contradicted what most thought must be true. "Jack?" 

"Something down here...." Heading down the alley, he stopped near a scuffed patch of asphalt. "Ta'ra? What's this look like to you?" 

She frowned at the remnants of yellow leather poking out of a pair of thumb-deep holes. "Heels. Size... eight, eight and a half?" 

"That's what I thought you'd say." Jack rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Just once. Just once, a normal case, would that be too much to ask? No aliens, no psychos, no people jumping off the tops of buildings to land on their feet...." 

"You don't think-" But he did, quite evidently. She frowned, tracing trajectories by eye. "Well, at least this simplifies matters." 

"Oh yeah? How?" 

She shrugged. Wasn't it obvious? "Locate the person on this set who's missing a pair of shoes." 

If it weren't for latex gloves, Jack would have buried his head in his hands. 

"Right," he said after a long moment. "Okay. Give me a minute to convince a few more uniforms I'm out of my mind." With a martyred air, he marched off toward yellow tape. 

Ta'ra chuckled softly, even as she turned to her grisly task. Jack would never believe the vast majority of the force considered him an excellent detective. Even if a few of them did think he was... what was that Earth phrase, not playing with a full deck? 

Footsteps returned, accompanying familiar annoyance. "Do we know who he was?" she asked.

Jack offered a set of cards. "Passport and driver's license say William Yates."

She studied the laminated photo of a thin, nondescript dark-haired man, rubbing it as she'd seen Jack do to test whether or not someone had altered the ID. It appeared legitimate. As did the passport; though some of the locations tweaked her interest. "Germany?" 

"Not that long ago, either. Must've caught the red-eye from Europe to get here this fast." 

Just in time to encounter an elderly madman with a knife. She shook her head. Well, it wasn't as if her own species didn't have their share of criminals. "Which roof, Jack?" 

Her partner peered upward toward the most likely angle; a solid warehouse backing the end of the set's alley. "Looks like that one, but to throw a hundred-fifty pound body out this far...." _The killer wouldn't be human_. A brief, nightmare image rose up; chitin and darkness, and a skewed, psychopathic form. 

Which touched her own nightmares, the ones that woke her screaming names only one other being on this planet knew. Perhaps it was time to indulge in another Earth custom, and change the subject. "I didn't see anyone being treated by the paramedics." Sad truth of living on this planet; rendering emergency aid put the rescuer at risk for a host of unpleasant diseases.

"Wasn't anybody to treat." Jack jerked his head toward a trio of strangers standing near a shark-gray movie helicopter, under a uniform's watchful eye. An elderly gentleman in a blue jacket and red cap stood comfortingly close to a redhead in tan blouse and slacks, while a dark blond with cold eyes steadfastly ignored the cops to scan the area. "Guy with the granite face? Stunt pilot. Kept people back from the body, wouldn't let anyone try CPR." Skepticism drew dark brows up. "Said it wouldn't do any good." 

"Given that the cause of death appears to be what you call cardiac tamponade, he's likely right," Ta'ra acknowledged. 

"Cardiac-?"

She gestured at the knife impaling the man's upper chest. "Here, it would have nicked the pericardial sac."

"Sac fills up with blood, heart can't pump, and that's all she wrote," the detective nodded. "Saw it in a car crash a few years back. Nasty. Still doesn't explain-" He closed his teeth on the thought. 

"Why he and his coworkers kept anyone from aiding the victim?" Ta'ra finished. She extended her mind toward the trio, listening for any stray thoughts they might project about the murder. Listening for any hint they might be... other than they appeared. The blond might be chill and unmoved, but his co-workers were certainly shaken-

Silence. A soft, snowy silence, like wind through _giuis_-tree boughs on a winter's morning. 

__

What? Ta'ra stared at them, listening hard. Letting the solid sharpness of Jack's mind ground her efforts. 

..._safe, Lady... call... know him?_....

Static. Not the empty silence she'd run into when one Earthling psychic had a blocking metal plate in his head. But faint, faded thoughts, past the edge of the normal frequency range. As if they were- 

"Military, Jack!" Ta'ra breathed, eyes wide. It wasn't encrypted, not as her own people's _Foglai'ech Tratnona_ - Night Raiders - would have been; but she'd felt that high, whispery flow of information before. "They're covert operatives!" 

~*~*~*~*~  
"Said you wanted a little excitement, Dom," Stringfellow Hawke murmured dryly.

"Next time I say that, do us both a favor and shoot me," Dominic Santini muttered under his breath, knowing his partners would hear him. He stuck his head into the cockpit to give the controls a visual once-over. One hand touched the brim of his red ball cap as he checked off items on a mental list; you never could tell what a star might take it into his head to do to a perfectly good helicopter. "Dull is nice. Dull is good. Dull is no weirdoes in white suits bugging us, no jets buzzing us, nobody shooting at us!" 

"Right. Boring." 

"Anybody else freaking out here?" Caitlin O'Shannessy put in, rubbing her arm where String had grabbed her to keep her from touching the body. Hazel eyes jumped to the still form, jerked away with a shiver. "'Cause I don't know 'bout you two, but this is really giving me the heebie-jeebies." 

"Yeah." Damn an ex-cop's instincts to help, anyway. Cait was one of his people, now, and String didn't need Airwolf's angry shrill in the back of his head to see something was desperately wrong here. 

__

Anomalous PKE readings: low-level, the AI murmured. The thought had an odd, echoing feel, the kind Hawke was beginning to realize meant she was transmitting to multiple minds. _Hazard level: Unknown_.

"Heck of a thing to know about a guy," Dominic grumbled. But it didn't have nearly the bite it could have; the older pilot had seen enough between 'Nam and the Firm to know even a dead man could be a trap. 

And there'd been those weird rumors, a year or so ago in downtown L.A., about bodies that weren't quite dead.... 

At least this would be it for the day. For Santini Air, anyway. The stars were already throwing fits about this interruption to their few hours off, while the film crew had made half a dozen surreptitious calls to get their early supper break trucked in, hot. But the rest of this pack of Tinseltown denizens would have been here anyway, spending what was left of today to tear things down and transport gear to the next location. "What a mess." 

"You can say that again," Dominic grumbled. "Time's money. If they can't start filming first thing tomorrow on the new set, it'll cost the company a few thousand, easy." 

"An' a few thousand here, a few thousand there - pretty soon you're talking 'bout real money," Caitlin grinned. A little pink came back to her cheeks, making her look more as she had flying the chase helicopter, getting aerial shots while Dominic kept them coordinated from the ground. "Not that you'd know anything about that, Mr. Cézanne." 

"I know enough." He'd scrimped and scrounged plenty of times to keep Airwolf flying, when Michael'd had trouble diverting parts away from the Committee's view. It hadn't come down to threatening his grandfather's art collection. But he'd always known that might happen. "Any word from Michael?" 

"You kidding me?" Satisfied his bird had survived another close encounter of the Hollywood kind, Dominic backed out and shrugged. "No calls, no messages, no strange ladies in white lurking around corners. It's like the man fell off the face of the earth. You sure he's even in the country?" 

With Archangel, you could never be sure. But the ache in his bones that said _Michael isn't here_ didn't _feel_ that far away. Maybe a state away. Maybe the other side of the street, for all he knew....

__

Location query?

A feel of fur and feathers; a gentle warmth, totally at odds with the deadly power at her command. 

Airwolf. 

String controlled his shiver. This was part of him now. Part of all of them; coin paid for flying one of the most advanced pieces of hardware on the planet. Though it was her software that had caused the problem; a combat AI so sophisticated it had somehow broken the bonds of silicon and come to life. A life now tangled in their own minds, curious and warm and absolutely impossible to shut out. _Get used to it_, he told himself. _You want to fly her, you pay the price._

Easy to say. Another matter entirely to realize how deep Airwolf had burrowed, to the point where String wasn't sure when he'd lost what it was to be alone in his own skull. He wasn't surprised Archangel had left the cabin as soon as humanly possible. 

Deliberately, String reached back toward that warmth. _Where's Michael?_ She might not tell him. Archangel's security clearance was far higher than any member of Santini Air, no matter how many Firm missions they'd flown. 

But then, Airwolf tended to ignore little matters like security. At least when it came to her aircraft commander inquiring about one of her stray pilots.

__

Pilot Michael, Archangel located: Knightsbridge, came the swift reply. _GPS coordinates_.... 

The swift flow of numbers translated to one specific patch of air above the planet's surface; a stuttering flow of _where-Michael-is_ that matched patterns String had seen before. A pattern that clutched at that odd ache, tugging at him to go, forget the cops, _find_ the man-

__

No. No, I won't. "He's in his office. Pacing." 

"I knew it, the bleach finally got to him," Dom said firmly.

"You can tell?" Caitlin was wide-eyed with wonder. Of all of them, she'd been the quickest to warm to Airwolf's presence, meeting the AI's curiosity with a pilot's avid joy in flight. "When I ask her about you and Dom... well, she gives me a location, but...."

"Heads up." String let his gaze indicate the two cops heading their way now that the medical examiner had taken over the body. The man moved lean and dark in a casual gray suit, the woman fair as cream in slacks and a white blouse, hair pulled back to cascade in golden waves over her shoulders.

"Detective Jack Breslin," the man introduced himself with a casual flash of badge. His smile had a wry, honest edge. "My partner, Ta'ra Andulon." His gaze fixed on Hawke. "Mind if we ask you a few questions?" 

"Yeah, we know the routine," Dom said testily. Brown eyes skewered his partner before he walked away with Caitlin. "You holler if you need us." 

"You've been in an investigation before?" Ta'ra asked curiously. 

"Couple," String shrugged. Let the cops believe they'd get separate stories. Dom and Cait could hear him streets away, not just down the block. "While back, one of our choppers blew up. Things got messy for a while. You can look up the reports." 

"You think that's got anything to do with this?" 

Breslin was quick. "Doubt it," String said carefully. "The government took over the case. They say they handled it." True enough. If you counted Michael's handpicked Firm agents wiping out the evidence that Hawke himself had set the charge. 

The detective was taking fast notes, pencil scribbling over his leather-backed notepad. "Anything else?" he said dryly.

__

Tell them, or don't tell them.... Breslin didn't look like the type to let little things like an old murder investigation slide. But that was Dominic's story to tell, not his. "No." 

"What did you see?" Ta'ra asked softly. 

__

Death. A death he hadn't caused, for once; he didn't even know this man. Whoever he was. "Ms. Dion - one of the extras - came running out of that alley." String pointed. "She looked terrified. I looked, saw the body, and put Dom's bird on the ground before the rest of the crew could trample everything." 

"Meaning you blew away half the evidence." Breslin's gaze wasn't quite a threat. 

__

So you're bad cop. Fine. "We've been flying choppers all over here all morning. I figured fifty pairs of feet would do more damage than downwash." 

"You saw he was dead?" Ta'ra, gently questioning. 

String grimaced, thinking of the bloody mess smeared over asphalt. "Pretty obvious." 

"From a hundred feet up." Breslin. Deadpan. 

"Yeah." _And you can think about it whatever you like_. As a pilot his eyesight was a matter of medical record. Not that the examiners knew how well he could see; twenty-ten vision didn't even come close. But there was evidence to show he could have spotted a bloody blur that far away. "Who is he?" 

The detective gave him a thoughtful look. "You don't know him?" 

"Never seen him before." 

"And your partners don't know him." It wasn't quite a question. 

String shook his head anyway. "They'd have said if they did." 

"William Yates," Breslin challenged. 

String thought about it a moment. "No one I know." He glanced toward the stunt chopper. "Let us know when we can move out."

"You act like you think this interview is over, Mr. Hawke." The detective's smile was about as warm as a pile of ice cubes. 

__

Isn't it? "I don't know him, Detective. Odds are somebody did, and somebody loved him, and it's a shame he's dead. But I'd be a damn idiot to stab a man and drop the body in the middle of a set I planned to fly over. And Dominic Santini doesn't hire idiots."

~*~*~*~*~  
"They didn't do it, Jack." 

The detective didn't waver from his spiral search of the suspect rooftop. "Thought you were having a hard time picking them up." 

"Their thoughts, yes," Ta'ra acknowledged. "I can only tell when they are communicating with their companion by the few words I do catch. Yet I clearly sense surprise and dismay; much as any of your officers would feel, stumbling onto the scene. Empathically, they project almost as well as you do." 

Just what he'd always wanted. A person-to-person line straight to the lady he shared... well, stuff with. Like investigations. An apartment. A smart-Alec cockatoo. And sometimes a quiet dinner, as long as he didn't let Ta'ra cook- _Oops_. 

"You didn't like it!" 

"Ta'ra, your mashed potatoes set fire to my wall," Jack pointed out, stopping in his tracks as something dark caught his eye. _Blood drop, maybe?_

Ta'ra photographed it, handed him a swab. "They were perfectly edible." 

"Says the lady who gets blitzed on half a cup of coffee." Ta'ra might look human, but there were things about her that were just - not. "Tell you the truth, I was starting to get a little worried before you whipped up that biochemical analyzer to check what you were eating. Kept thinking if caffeine got you that bad, what about that stuff that's in chocolate? Theo-whatsit?" 

"Theobromine," Ta'ra filled in. "Another of your planet's alkaloids. Chemically, very like caffeine; though not nearly as powerful."

"Yeah. Or half a dozen other things we eat every day without thinking 'bout it. Or worse, that there was something you weren't getting, that we just didn't have here." Which had almost been the case. Not long after that attempted alien invasion had powered through Ta'ra had just - collapsed. 

__

Epilepsy, the doctor on the case had said, dismissing Jack and Detective Lieutenant Victor Maldonado's fervent denial of any such problem. _Grand mal seizure. Have her take these_. 

Jack hadn't dared let them drug her. Especially after a particularly determined elderly nurse pulled him aside and told him no matter what the doctors might think, that poor girl just didn't _feel_ right to be an epileptic. 

Given that there were no few L.A. cops alive today because Nurse Doane had been in the E.R., Jack listened. And played a desperate hunch, enlisting Vic's help to fend off Dr. Shrinkenstein and sneak Ta'ra out of the hospital to her lab. Where he sorted test tubes, and mixed solutions, and held her hand through the painful hours of test after test between fits. 

When they found out the problem was low selenium, he almost cried. 

So now their pantry shelves were stocked with canned shellfish, their medicine cabinets had bottles of supplements, and Ta'ra cooked her own bread from enriched grain. And he worried. A lot. 

"I am a med-tech officer, Jack. I should have checked for nutritional deficiencies before. And I am fine now. Really." Blue eyes rolled. "I've my own job, my own ID, and my own personal experience with your culture. I do not need a white knight in the bargain." 

"Hey, you never know when one of those dragons is gonna drop by," Jack shrugged, spotting what might be a suspicious scuff on the roof. _Footprint?_ He waited out the camera flash, trying to reconstruct the scene in his head. "And what do you mean, their companion? Thought you said our military wasn't anything like yours." _Footprint, scuff mark, footprint...nah, doesn't make sense_. "And if they're military, why'd Santini say they're a stunt pilot business?" 

"Likely because they are." Ta'ra put her camera away, took out a few of her more esoteric pieces of equipment. That they had to be careful with; while the bits of alien technology Ta'ra could construct might help them solve cases, they had to be able to back it up with Earth-native investigative techniques. "I'm not well informed on my own military, much less yours. Yet I'm certain you have - reservists, is that the word?" 

"Yeah, but-" He knew a distraction when he heard one. "Companion, Ta'ra. Give." 

She hesitated. "You understand, what little I do know, I really shouldn't be speaking of. It is sensitive material." 

"I won't talk about it," Jack assured her. "I'll try not to even think about it." _Besides, we're on a whole 'nother planet_.

Ta'ra gave him a wry glance. "Part of the difficulty is, I truly _don't_ know that much. We have our exposés, our... investigative reporters, I suppose you would call them. Yet I simply never found the Night Raiders of much interest before." She frowned. "I do know our covert operatives can send their thoughts in such a way as to make them difficult for the average citizen to pick up. As those three do." Putting her latest gadget away, she drummed fingers on her slacks. "I couldn't catch more than a few words, yet they seemed to be reassuring a fourth who wasn't with us." 

"They're telepaths?" _Man, oh man_.... 

"That's the oddity of it. I don't think they are." Ta'ra spread empty hands. "They didn't appear to hear me, or you, or even each other. They certainly didn't project as if they were listening to anyone besides their companion. Their Lady." Blonde brows drew down. "It's as if they were on a - dedicated channel?" 

Telepathy as hardware circuits. Just when had his life gotten this weird? 

__

When you found a body autopsied inside thirty seconds. He shook off a shiver. _Focus, Jack_. "You know, this just doesn't make sense." He gestured at what little fragments of evidence remained on the roof after the chopper had blasted through. "This blood's from our victim, right?

"I'll need to run the full analysis to be sure, but the preliminary matches," she nodded. 

"Okay. Here we got footprint, footprint, scuff, footprint." None of which looked good enough to match in court; he made sure they had tape and photos anyway. "Looks like Yates came up here with our friend in high heels. Then some other guy - probably our suspect - snuck up here, lunged, and then...." 

"Yates' footprints seem... misshapen." Ta'ra frowned. "Or is that only the wind?" 

Jack shrugged. _Don't know_. "High-heels beats feet out of here, goes over the edge this way." He pointed down, toward the near-invisible spot where yellow leather still lurked. "Struggle goes that way, now it looks like only one set of prints, and-" Walking to one side of the trail, he hit the edge of the roof. "That's all she wrote." 

She shivered. "Awful way to go." 

"Aren't that many good ones." Jack snapped off his glove, dragged fingers through dark hair. "We've got an APB on the guy Dion saw, and it's going to be a day or two before L.A. County Coroner gets around to the body. Let's go see if we can track down any of Yates' nearest and dearest." 

~*~*~*~*~  
_Flip. Flip. Slice_. 

In the privacy of his office, Michael Archangel shredded a leftover bit of paperwork the old-fashioned way - with a throwing knife and a temper. _So much for the former Yugoslavia's inter-ethnic shenanigans_, he thought dryly. _Can't those people find anything better to do? It's not like making a living in mountains is easy even when you're not shooting at each other_.... 

Mountains. A valley between; sapphire-blue lake nestled in its depths, solid log cabin snug against the shore. A fire on a stony hearth, the rich scent of steak and trout hanging in the air.... 

__

I. Am. Not. Going. 

Furry warmth touched his mind. _Transport request?_

"Not now, Lady," Archangel murmured. His personal avatar of Murphy's Law; currently personified in the form of a helicopter-sized security breach. Didn't Airwolf _know_ there were surveillance systems at Knightsbridge? 

__

Yes.   
Knightsbridge security systems specifications accessible.   
Systems incapable of detecting link transmission.   
Audio surveillance inoperative within pilot Michael, Archangel's office.   
Security hazard of pilot contact: Low.   
Secondary link agitated. Suggest contact with link partner to stabilize.   
Requesting transport?

"No," the spy grumbled. Airwolf had access to Knightsbridge's security specs? How long had that been going on? 

__

Airwolf AI free to act in pilot defense since Edwards. 

Effective defense requires knowledge of offensive, defensive, and surveillance systems surrounding pilots and dependant personnel.

"And I've told you to _stop reading my mind_." 

__

Pilot Michael, Archangel broadcasting in the clear, came the AI's sharp reply. _Re-transmitting broadcast_-

Anxiety mired him, a sucking swamp of uncertainty; the risk of detection, the all-too-clear knowledge of what would happen to him, to all of them, should Zeus learn what bound him to Hawke and Airwolf. The intangible chain dragging him east to the mountains, toward a carved, rocky cavern he knew would be filled with a waiting hum-

Gone, leaving his hands trembling on his desk. Damn. Damn! If he'd been broadcasting this, and there were any Starlight Project operative or Heart-of-Dragon in the area - god, Zeus would be _right_ to take him out now, he was a walking security breach-

__

Broadcasting via link, Airwolf corrected herself shyly. _Transmission unreadable without link access. Transmission recipients: Airwolf, pilot Stringfellow Hawke._

Almost as bad. If Hawke broke that stoic calm and came here....

"Sir?" 

Marella. And he'd barely heard her come in. "Yes?" 

Duval's dark brows drew down. "Talking to our little cub?" 

Airwolf was hardly a cub. "Yes," he admitted shortly. 

"So I take it we're eating at the lake tonight." 

"No." Why did Marella keep pushing that? Once a day, every day, ever since he'd said he wasn't going back there. 

"Sir." Dark eyes were level, unyielding. "Our reports to the Committee didn't exaggerate the territorial component of the sentinel-guide bond that much." 

"Hawke isn't a sentinel." 

"By all available evidence, no," she admitted, advancing toward his desk. "No more than you're a guide. But he is close, Eagle Lake _is_ his territory, and he needs it as much as he needs Airwolf. And he needs you." She crossed white-clad arms. "And frankly, sir - you need him." 

"The hermit of the San Gabriel Mountains? Not likely." Though his inner sense murmured something was off, out of kilter. He simply couldn't put a finger on what. His sensory spikes had stopped once Airwolf got a good hold; no more pseudo-migraines, brought on by sight or hearing thrown out of control. Instead, he felt a deepening tension, a growing irritability nothing seemed to soothe. 

But need Hawke? Not a chance. 

The ringing phone was a welcome distraction; Marella caught it, which meant he got stuck with the whine of a fax machine. Ah well. 

__

Germany? Late for them, Archangel thought, pulling off the cover sheet. But then the German police force, like any other, didn't keep nine-to-five hours. Wall or no Wall. 

"Oh, my god." Marella Duval sucked in a breath, playing ditzy secretary to the hilt. Fingers clicked over her laptop; Michael raised an eyebrow, recognizing a systems access of the LAPD computer network. "Oh, that's horrible. Yes, of course - of _course_ we'll help. Can I have your number, Detective Breslin? I just need to go down the hall to our files, it's kind of late, but I can call you back in twenty minutes with all the details. Oh my god, this is horrible...."

__

This is to inform that we have perhaps located a member of your staff, Michael translated quickly in his head. _Of the unfortunate circumstance_....

Not good. Not good at all. 

Marella kept up her breathless spiel a good minute more before she let Breslin soothe her with matter-of-fact words. Listened to the polite click as the detective hung up, wiping the vapid expression from her face as she would a spot of mustard. "Sir, we may have located Agent Yates." 

Michael shuffled the fax together, raised a blond brow. "Germany?" 

"By now, the Los Angeles County Coroner's office." 

He narrowed an eye. "Details." 

She laid them out swiftly; body, knife, movie lot. The vaguely German face the witness had described, now being sought throughout the city as "wanted for questioning". All the while he knew she was surreptitiously watching his fingers clench and release on his cane. 

__

You're wound like a spring, Marella had told him this morning. _And it gets worse every day_.

And she thought the solution was Hawke. Ridiculous. "Detective Breslin. Jack Breslin?"

"Still alive." Marella rolled her eyes. 

Archangel hid most of his smile. For all his agents' independent minds, they still had an operative's typical annoyance with those slated to uphold pesky little details like the law instead of national security. "Oh, come now, Marella. Any cop who's managed to seriously annoy both the FBI and the CIA by discovering rogue agents running their own operations, and survived, can't be all bad." 

"If you say so, sir." Shaking her head, Marella dug into the fax; a sheaf of official German paperwork in reference to a just-discovered John Doe. A dark brow arched up as she hit the pertinent details; one sheet had the peculiar white-on-black of a dental x-ray. 

"Very interesting," Archangel said dryly. "According to our contacts in the German authorities, they have Yates too." 

"Or part of him," Marella observed, holding up the scan of various bone fragments. "Ragged, almost etched. Acid?" 

"Their preliminary guess, yes," Archangel noted. Afternoon sunlight glinted off half-dark glasses as he leaned back in his chair. "It's been my experience that upper jaws don't generally go wandering off without the attached skull. Not to mention clavicles." 

"And if we have Yates over there, and someone with Yates' ID and general appearance here...." 

Archangel nodded. Sloppy work, disposing of a body in acid to take an agent's place; but it might well have bought the imposter the time he needed to wreak havoc in the Firm. And what else could they have been after? Yates wasn't a particularly high-ranking agent; just one of several keeping an eye on what had been East Germany. "Cutting out their double speaks to a certain finality of purpose." 

"I've already yanked his clearance," Marella said briskly. "We'll start checking his back-trail immediately. And I'll run a deeper check on Detective Breslin." 

"Yes; he may well need to know some details of Yates' true profession, if he's to follow the available leads," Archangel agreed. "Be discreet." 

"Yes, sir." Though something in the glint of dark eyes told him she was considering actions that might be very indiscreet indeed. 

Nonsense. Marella was a professional. 

Professional enough to have him take _Angel One_'s controls when they left for the night. No sense in flying a helicopter with a headache. 

He felt a quiver as he took the stick; dismissed it. The Committee knew he had a license. They might frown on a Deputy Director flying himself home, but it wouldn't be more than a note in someone's report. Certainly no cause to connect him to Airwolf....

Marella dragged a strand of wavy dark hair out from under her white headset. "So, sir. About the Balkans?" 

Right; no point in not getting a little more work done on the way home. Even if it was only guesswork and speculation, meant to wind down from the real-life concerns of the day. And it would be a few more minutes' distraction, before he landed at a quiet house that lately felt all too empty. 

"So given that the Serbs feel their right to power goes back to the Ottoman Empire, and the local Christians have been hating them at least that long...." _Pine trees_, Michael suddenly thought, realizing their flight had gone on far too long.

"It's all right, sir. It's not like we had a registered flight plan." 

"Dammit, Marella! Where are we?" 

Ruby lips quirked in a humorous line, but there was a defiant sparkle in dark eyes as they powered over the mountain pass. "Where does it look like, sir?" 

Sunset glinting off blue water. Smoke rising from a stone-and-mortar chimney. A lone eagle winging away, last trout of the evening clutched in her talons. 

And one very angry pilot standing on the cabin's back porch. 

"No," Archangel bit out, preparing to circle and make for the nearest airport. He hadn't lasted this long as an agent by yielding to compulsions. He wasn't about to start now. 

White silk rustled beside him. "I really didn't want to do this," Marella grumbled. 

Steel pricked his arm, and everything went black. 


	2. Chapter 2

~*~*~*~*~  
There were more unpleasant places to wake up than on a soft couch with one wrist tied to an angry Stringfellow Hawke. But right now, Archangel couldn't think of any. 

__

What happened?

Helicopter, Eagle Lake, Marella-

__

She drugged me! She actually drugged me!

He could still feel the sting in his arm where she'd driven the needle home. A trick more commonly found in the Special Forces; load a hypo originally meant to deliver life-saving atropine in the event of nerve-gas exposure with enough sedative to put a man out for hours. Much more sure than the traditional blackjack to the back of the head, and safer for assailant and victim. 

__

I think I'd rather have been struck. He could feel the vibration as String growled in the back of his throat. A growl with a very specific aim; Archangel fought the lingering haze to peer towards a whisper of silk.

Marella perched on a carved wood chair, glowing white in the candlelight. Tet was curled near her feet, tail thumping the floor, the blue-tick coonhound grinning the doggish grin of a hound whose ears have been well and thoroughly scratched behind. "Before we get into the usual accusations, Hawke, this wasn't Archangel's idea." 

"Zeus?" Hawke bit out. Archangel didn't have to look to know the pilot's eyes were narrow slivers of blue fire. 

"Dominic's, actually. Sort of." She shrugged, graceful as snowfall. "At least, I did contact him to make sure you'd be here. And he and Caitlin know I'm attempting to handle your problem." 

Hawke growled. "Only problem I have is the Firm." 

"Of course." Marella leaned back. "That's why you've been as safe to be around these past few weeks as a case full of sweating dynamite. And why Michael's been terrorizing the office staff." 

"I am _not_-" Two voices chorused; biting off further words, the men glared at each other. 

"Right," Archangel's second in command said dryly. "Sir, how do you feel? Really?" 

How did he _feel?_ He'd been drugged, restrained, all but coerced into flying here. How did she think he felt? Angry, woozy, spoiling for a verbal duel with the master of monosyllables.... 

Calm. Inexplicably. As if a soothing balm spread from the point of contact between plaid flannel and his white sleeve, working deeper with every familiar growl. A knot in his soul untied, whispering _home. Safe_. 

__

Secondary link stabilizing. Relief, in that rush of fur and feathers. _Pilot transmissions anger/irritation/need abating_. 

"Sorry, Angel." String's voice was soft, almost gentle. "Didn't know we were hurting you." 

__

Pilot full link positive feedback, Airwolf AI.   
Secondary link echoes in full link.   
Secondary link disruption causes negative feedback. Undesirable phenomenon. 

"Damn," Michael muttered, plucking at the knot tying him to String. This was an aspect of Airwolf he hadn't considered. 

Marella cleared her throat. "Sir." She tapped the open laptop beside her, its display registering an open communications channel to a certain nosy helicopter. "You're going to stay there until Airwolf tells me you're clear." Her eyes flicked to Hawke. "Both of you." 

Hawke's gaze snapped challenge. "And if we don't?" 

Marella arched a dark brow. Tugged the top of a plastic packet out of her pocket, just far enough for them to register the red cross on it. "We go to plan B." 

~*~*~*~*~  
_Secondary link stabilized.  
PKE flow within normal parameters.   
Psychic scan indicates pilots entering REM cycle.  
Preliminary scans indicate high likelihood REM sleep rhythms re-established_. 

Airwolf monitored her drowsing pilots, breathing an electronic sigh of relief. There would be nightmares, now, echoing down her links from weary brains; but far, far easier to deal with those than with the growing disturbance she'd sensed in two minds. Irritability, irrationality.... 

"That was the problem?" came Marella's typed query. "They just weren't getting enough sleep?" 

__

Pilots Hawke and Michael Archangel suffering from insufficient REM, Airwolf replied hesitantly. Marella Duval was a registered passenger, trusted by her pilots. Yet without a link, the AI had no insight into the spy's mind; only her pilots' judgement, and her own observations. _Ultimate cause: Unknown. Proximal cause: Unknown. Possible proximal cause, emotional upset due to lack of contact between secondary link partners_. 

"Fretting themselves to pieces." A gap in transmitted words; applying former observations, Airwolf guessed the woman was pausing to think. "Any estimates on how often they'll need contact?" 

__

Insufficient data.   
Link files incomplete.  
Time may be variable. Long-distance secondary link maintenance appears to require minor but constant PKE flow. PKE stores temporarily rerouted by Airwolf to defend pilots Hawke, Dominic, and Caitlin against possible pilot hazard from anomalous low-level PKE readings. Source: body, William Yates.

A very long pause. "Angel... tell me about the body." 

~*~*~*~*~  
_Santini Air_, Ta'ra read off the Van Nuys hangar in the golden morning light. _Antique aircraft. Helicopter rentals_. 

A thriving business, if its exterior were anything to go by. Neat, well-kept; not a lot of money spread around, but enough for even layers of asphalt leading to the runway and fresh coats of paint everywhere that needed painting. The star-spangled helicopter just outside the open hangar doors had the hot scent of a clean-burning engine, and the battered toolbox beside a stripped-down biplane carried barely a trace of grease. 

__

Jack will be sorry he missed this, the med-tech thought, heading toward the clink of tools on steel. Right now Detective Breslin was still stuck in the station, no doubt listening to an odd tirade or two from Lieutenant Maldonado while he cleared up paperwork on a case they'd just closed and chased down leads in the half-dozen others they were working. William Yates, badly and oddly as he'd died, was one of innumerable other Earthlings who'd dropped dead under unnatural circumstances in Los Angeles, and there were limits to how much time they could give him. 

But they would both be at the autopsy this afternoon. She'd found something rather... unusual in her analyses last night. Something that didn't quite fit a simple stabbing. 

__

If I could only remember where I've seen that compound before....

Ta'ra shook off the vague chill. Right now even the LA County coroners would be hard-pressed to pick one body out of their pile of work. Best to wait until the autopsy and take fresh samples then.

"...And he almost _smiled_ at me when I came in," a well-built blond shook his head, tinkering with the biplane engine. "Your brother hasn't been into anything I shouldn't know about, has he, Sinj?" _Not that that would be hard, knowing String. Him and that white-clad weirdo...._ An image of a lean blond in white; one lens of his glasses blacked out by dark leather, hand braced on an elegant cane that concealed the danger of sharp steel. _Well, Archangel is a spy, they're all weird. Though Jason at least tries to act normal._

The tall, rugged blond passing tools shrugged. "Maybe he had a good night with the cello." _Or maybe he was out flying_. A darkness of hull and rotors, coupled with viciousness and regret. _Another mission he won't talk about. Dammit, little brother, I know you. You don't belong in Archangel's world. Why won't you stop?_ "Miss?"

"Hello," the shorter blond grinned. _I'm Mike, and I'm glad to see you... oh, am I ever...Got on my lucky boxers... She'd look great in my lucky boxers..._

Damn, she is a looker, Sinj's thoughts were running at the same time. _Oh god, Mike's drooling again. Heel, boy; check for white first. She might be one of Archangel's. Looks smart enough to be. Gray, denim, black - no white. Okay. No, not okay; could be undercover_. _Though that would be rude. Or an enemy agent. Which would be a lot more than rude, but... calm down. Act like she's an ordinary person. You remember ordinary people, right?_ "Can we help you?" 

Ta'ra smiled. Handsome hands on both of them; strong and capable, muscled as a pilot's had to be. Though they lacked the nimble air she loved about Jack's, so evident when the detective picked a lock. _Agents as well? Yet they've no link to any "Lady". Curious_. "I'm looking for Mr. Dominic Santini?"

"You found him." The gruff voice she remembered; though the Italian had shed his blue jacket for a mechanic's overalls. "Somethin' we can-" Dominic stopped, scowled. "Ms. Andulon. There something we didn't cover yesterday?" 

"That investigation is still continuing," she shrugged, setting the matter aside. "I've heard you grant helicopter lessons?" 

Dark eyes sized her up. A professional assessment; though she did detect a warmth of appreciation for her appearance. Even a silent chuckle, at the assemblage of black leather and buckles that made up her jacket. "You want to learn to fly a chopper?" 

"I have for quite some time." Ever since she and Jack had borrowed an LAPD Traffic Patrol helicopter and pilot to chase down the Xenomorph. It wasn't a shuttle, but their soaring sweep through the air had softened even the razor fear of chasing her worst nightmare. "It took a few months to build up my resources." Alien or not, she had bills like everyone else. 

"It ain't cheap," Dominic acknowledged. "C'mon in."

__

Her again... 

__

Trouble?...

...Pilot hazard?

A soft, subtle whisper; Ta'ra listened with every fiber of her being, feeling a sense of comfort at hearing even this much silent communication. Jack and Vic had done their best to make her comfortable on this planet, but sometimes she missed other telepaths so badly.... 

__

Then again, perhaps I should be grateful, Ta'ra thought, taking a pen to Dominic's pile of paperwork. _At least I only have to hear Lieutenant Maldonado's lectures once_. 

~*~*~*~*~  
_Apartment 3-C_. Jack laid a hand against a tan-painted door that had seen better days, carefully standing out of range of Enrika Dion's peephole. Held his breathing quiet as possible as he listened. _Man, I wish I were tuning out one of Vic's speeches right now_.

And he would be, too, if he hadn't been re-reading his notes on the Yates case and put his finger on something - off. 

__

Shoes. Why did it have to be shoes? 

Turned out there'd been a lot of people wandering around the set barefoot yesterday. L.A., after all; between the broiling hot weather and the general weirdness level, shoes were a state of mind.

A state Dion had apparently changed two or three times yesterday, depending on whom you asked. If they'd noticed anything at all, beside the buxom blonde's - ah - attributes. 

__

You know, Ta'ra's not here. You don't have _to squash that thought_. 

True. He'd just gotten used to thinking more... well, politely. So to speak. Bad enough what Ta'ra had to put up with working with the rest of the guys in Robbery/Homicide. Or worse, the guys in Vice. She didn't need it from him, too.

Vibrations in painted wood; nothing that couldn't be explained by the radio tuned to the Top Forty inside. No sound or smell that shouldn't be in a cheap L.A. apartment.

But his nerves wouldn't quit. Something about that woman wasn't _right_. 

__

If the suspect passed her heading into that alley... why didn't anybody else see him? 

Light shifted behind him; Jack glanced back, noted the elevator was on its way up. 

But footsteps inside the apartment were heading for the door, and he had to turn away. He knocked. "Ms. Dion?"

Footfalls stopped. "Yes?" 

Jack held his ID in view of the peephole. "Detective Breslin. I was wondering if we could go over a few things from yesterday? Should only take a few minutes." 

A few seconds of silence. Behind him, Jack heard the creak as the ancient elevator neared this floor. "All right." Locks clicked open; the blonde actress opened the door with a coy smile. "Come on in." 

__

Said the spider to the fly... Jack shook it off, stepped inside. Sneezed, at the thick scent of room deodorizer wreathing everything. 

"Not much, but we've got a pool downstairs," she shrugged, heading for the kitchen. "And that's what's really important, right?" 

"Sure." _Tinseltown, definitely_, Jack thought, dialing his cell phone. He'd rather have his underground garage and a lease that didn't squawk about Norton. Not every building manager would put up with a cockatoo that danced to 80's rock and quoted _The Honeymooners_. 

Which was a shame. Norton had better manners than a lot of his fellow tenants. 

"Jack?" Ta'ra's voice over the line, with an odd white-water noise in the background. 

"Just checking in." _'Cause I've got a bad feeling, and it's hanging on like the headache that ate Manhattan_. 

Then again, maybe that was just the room deodorizer. 

"Know this sounds strange, Ms. Dion, but I'd just like to ask you about a pair of shoes...." Jack's words trailed off, as every instinct a cop had went off at once. 

No TV. No refrigerator. No cooking utensils in the dusty kitchenette. 

This apartment wasn't lived in. It was laired in, like an ant lion's pit, men's and women's clothing discarded around its edges like empty husks. 

And there was something under the cloying scent of cinnamon and chemicals. Something off. Something foul. 

__

Spoiled meat? 

He swallowed dryly. "Ta'ra, I-" 

"Well, what do you know." Dion's voice dropped, all pretense of charm gone. "You are a smart one." 

Crimson flashed at the corner of his vision; Jack ducked, blocked, felt something burn across his left arm. Burn _into_ his arm; something pulled and snapped against his flesh as he sidestepped the next blow. _Holy - that's not a hand_-

But Jack knew what it was to dodge creatures shedding human shape, and the nest of blood-red tendrils Dion's arm unraveled into caught his cell phone instead of his face, shattering plastic into gray shards. She hissed, tan skin flowing into blood-red suppleness. "Stay still!" 

__

Like heck, lady! Jack dove for the door, yanked open the locks-

Tried to open the locks. His left hand got the deadbolt - then dropped, limp and lifeless. 

No time to think. Only time to pull gun and trigger, 9mm rounds slamming into a once-lovely form. Dion shrieked, fell.

Jack sagged back against the doorframe, shaking and sick. His left arm was on fire, he could barely feel his fingertips, and Dion's body was melting into a ruby puddle on the carpet. Gray lumps fell to red-stained ivory plush, rolled free in a dull rattle of spent lead. 

A weak grin stretched the detective's face. Finally, something bullets could handle. _Ballistics is going to have a ball with those_.

The red pool gathered in on itself, reforming into tentacles and furred skin. A wolf with Dion's hair looked at him, eyes pits of crimson flame. "Idiot human...." 

Jack gulped, dropped the useless pistol into his jacket pocket to scrabble at the last lock. _Where's a pulse rifle when you need one?_

Wood exploded inward, rammed in by a booted foot just below a face Jack had last seen as a sketch on an APB. "_Unheimlich_ creature!" Silver flashed, and Dion snarled. "Die - aiiie!" 

Scrambling out the door, Jack ducked as his former suspect went hurtling overhead. _Man, that's got to hurt_.

But the guy had hurt Dion; the wolf-creature leaned in the doorway, one hand pressed to a bleeding breast. Hurt, but not out.

__

Chest wound, Jack thought, pulling his suspect-turned-rescuer to unsteady feet. Heading for the stairs as Dion leapt for the elevator. _Like he did to Yates... if I had my cell_- 

No good. Dion was too fast, coiling across the steps behind them in a flow of furred muscle. They couldn't pull themselves up the stairwell fast enough. 

__

Ta'ra, help! 

~*~*~*~*~  
_Known police associate on premises. Pilot hazard? _

Don't know yet, Lady. Caitlin leaned against the hangar wall, watching Ms. Andulon sign off on Dom's paperwork. The analyst's classic features seemed to soften, as if she'd walked out of winter chill into a sudden patch of spring. 

The ex-patrol officer hid a smile. Dominic had that effect on people. Hard to say if he was interested because Ta'ra was pretty, or because Marella had bent their ears earlier this morning for every detail on the late Yates. Who might not be Yates at all. _Just another day with the Firm_, Caitlin thought wryly. 

Just as well String was out with Jo on a company charter for the morning. The man did his best not to scare off paying customers, but even on a good day he brought whole new meaning to the term _disgruntled_. 

__

Psychic scan detected. Frequencies examined overlap edge of link bandwidth.

Caitlin stifled a gasp. _You mean she's... listening? The way you listen?_

__

High probability psychic scan falls under category "telepathy", Airwolf informed her. _Unlikely subject Ta'ra Andulon can tap full links_. 

__

So she can't read our minds. But what about- Caitlin's gaze fell on the two blonds still tinkering with the biplane. Tinkering very slowly, concentrating on the parts that let them get the best possible view of the lovely crime scene analyst. _Uh-oh_.

__

Pilot dependants St. John Hawke and Mike Rivers possess natural shields only. Vulnerability to psychic scan: High.

__

Sinj and Mike are pilots, Lady, Caitlin pointed out, heading toward Dominic's desk as he waved a beckoning hand. Acknowledging the wary glint in Dom's eye with a tiny nod; yes, Airwolf had warned her, too.

__

Not mine. And that, as far as Airwolf was concerned, was that. 

Caitlin kept a friendly smile on her face as they did a first walk-around of a JetRanger, pointing out blade clearance, wind direction, the kind of surface skids had to touch down on to make a safe landing. It wasn't hard, Ta'ra seemed like a good person. _Good an' dangerous_. "You been up before?" 

"As a passenger only." Ta'ra glanced around the airport, noting the roar of engines taking off, the distance that should put them out of hearing range of ordinary people. Her eyes narrowed, taking in St. John's back to them. "Is there somewhere we might speak in private?" 

__

Sinj can hear us from here. And she knows it. "Have to do with your homicide?" Caitlin asked bluntly. 

"Not precisely." Frustration in that glance; a silent plea for forbearance. 

__

What the heck. "C'mon." Climbing into the JetRanger, Caitlin dug a small device out of the emergency repair kit. Waited until the analyst had closed the door after her, then pulled pitch and lifted them into the air. 

A hundred feet above the airport she switched on the drumbeat of static and rain. _Didn't think I'd have to use this so soon_.

"A white noise generator," Ta'ra said thoughtfully. "Your agents are prepared." 

"Agents?" _Play innocent_. "Don't know what you're talking about, ma'am. We're just a bunch of pilots for hire." 

"You're covert operatives, and neither Jack nor I care who you work for," Ta'ra replied bluntly. "We don't want to pry into your secrets. All we wish is to find Yates' killer-" Her eyes widened. "Cellular matrix shift proteins!" 

Now there was a mouthful. "What?" 

"In Yates' blood... but they were _Earth-native_ compounds," the analyst protested, touching her arm as if to reinforce her point. "There was no trace of any foreign chemical marker-"

Her cell phone buzzed; Ta'ra grimaced, pulled it out. "Jack?" 

"Just checking in." 

Caitlin lifted a skeptical brow. Didn't sound like just checking in. _Somebody thinks they're walking on a tar pit_.

Footsteps over the line. "Know this sounds strange, Ms. Dion, but I'd just like to ask you about a pair of shoes...." 

Caitlin's throat seized up. She'd heard that silence before; that shock of realization when a fellow cop knew they were alone, without backup, with a killer.

"Ta'ra, I-" 

"Well, what do you know." The woman's voice dropped, became less than human. "You are a smart one." 

A crash. The buzzing of an empty line. 

__

Fear swept by, a whispering ghost; a shivering chill at the edge of Caitlin's mind. _Fear_, and _pain_, and _loathing of the alien_.

"Jack!" 

~*~*~*~*~  
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," the creature with Dion's face sang, mincing out onto the roof. 

__

What, hunt-me-hunt-you through ten floors of stairwell wasn't enough? Jack thought wryly, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his arm as he crouched behind the metallic rattle of the roof air conditioner. Just a slow trickle, but... man, he was tired....

But they'd _had_ to head up. Down would've put this thing on the street. Put this creature that wanted to kill smack in the middle of the cops somebody must've called by this time. Cops who wouldn't stand a chance against something bullets barely slowed down. 

Dion's voice dropped to a menacing growl. "You can't hide, little meat. I smell you." 

"We should die now," Jack's suspect said in a cold German accent. A bright edge touched veins in his wrist, silvery contrast to the wet red bubbling down the side of his ribs. Retreated. "It would be the more merciful death." 

Feeling the acid seep of red fluid from the burning tentacle-slash, the unthinkable squirm as some bit of alien flesh burrowed deeper in his arm, Jack almost agreed with him. _No. Damn it, no! Ta'ra will think of something._

Dion chuckled; a wet, ugly sound. "No, I don't think she will."

__

She's reading-

"Your minds? Oh, yeah. Neat, huh? I'd explain it, if I thought a dumb cop would understand foreign cross-neuronal interactions and intertwined neural nets...." The furred creature cocked her head to one side, tentacles rippling in the place of fingers as she eyed their hiding place. "But you would, wouldn't you?" Teeth gleamed, longer and sharper than a wolf's fangs could be. "Guess it's true what they say; in Hollywood, nothing's what it seems." 

Silver was a bright gleam in the German's grip. "Do not fear." His breathing was harsh, labored. Jack flinched back from the wet gleam of ribs in the man's growing wound. "It will be swift... and God will forgive us the taint." 

"Are you crazy?!" Jack hissed, blocking the man's thrust with his whole arm. Swallowing back a wave of nausea as the tendril wormed ever deeper. _Got to stay alive... long enough for Ta'ra to know what she's up against_.... "She's trying to kill both of us!" 

"But I already have killed you, Jack." Dion snarled, prowling over the rooftop in an inhumanly smooth flow of muscle and fur. "Just as poor Franz tried to kill my mate-to-be." 

__

Tried to kill? That was a dead body down in the morgue, last Jack had looked-

"_Verdamment!_ So... those tales... are true as well," Franz cursed weakly. "Slay the _Werwolf_... and he will only rise, as the _Wampir_...."

Werewolf? Vampire? Oh, hell. _A shape-shifter!_

"Swift, Detective. Though I don't know why you think I'm some kind of alien. My kin have been here _far_ longer than yours." A red gleam of teeth rounded the A/C. "And now, it doesn't matter-"

A roar of wind and turbines out-blasted the air conditioner. The creature flinched back, threw up tendrils against the gale-

Howled, mowed down by one well-aimed white skid as steel blades powered over the roof. 

__

Ouch, Jack thought, hearing a faint, squishy thud a few seconds later. _Wonder if she went splat_.... He shook his head, trying to dislodge the sudden grayness that seemed to have settled in his vision. Now his whole left side was on fire; he could barely hear whimpered German beside him. 

Flickering blades rose over them, wafting a red-striped hull and a tail full of stars. _Red, white and blue_, the detective grinned. _Pretty_. 

"Jack!" The familiar blonde head ducked back into the chopper. "Put us down! Now! We've got to call Emergency-" 

"No way, lady," an oddly familiar voice called over the turbines. What was O'Shannessy doing here, Jack wondered. "Get 'em in. _Now_." 

"But we must-"

"Those ain't gunshot wounds!" the redhead bit out, freckled face wavering in gray shadows. "You need a hospital that's not gonna ask questions. And somebody that speaks German before this guy ain't _around_ to ask-"

Darkness swooped down. 


	3. Chapter 3

~*~*~*~*~  
"Stay with me, Jack...." 

Standing in the doorway of the Winterhaven hospital room, Michael watched Ta'ra twine her fingers with the still, bandaged hand of the drugged detective. Breslin's chest rose and fell, the slow, tentative rhythm of the deeply unconscious. The IV bag beside his bed dripped plasma and fluids into his veins, fighting off shock. 

"Please, wake up." Ta'ra's hands moved near the detective's neck; Michael frowned. Was that acupressure? "They got it. They did get it; I've tested your blood, there's nothing left but antigens and the neurotoxin. We can beat that. All we need is the appropriate stimulant. Just hold on. Please hold on." The blonde head leaned against dark hair. "This is my fault." 

Archangel lifted a blond brow. "Unless you possess precognition in addition to telepathy, Ms. Andulon, I doubt that."

Ta'ra started, whipping her head up to view him with wide, terrified eyes. "I - didn't hear you-" 

"I know. No, please don't move him," Archangel added quickly, noting how her hand had disappeared under the covers. "Right now Detective Breslin's on enough antibiotics and anti-virals to make a full-blown case of bubonic plague curl up and die. We're not sure what was crawling through his system, but it digested a tunnel through skin and muscle almost close enough to his spinal cord to kill him. The septic shock still could, if any infection gets started. And there's some sort of toxin in his system we've never seen before. _Don't_ move him."

Some of the fear faded as she scanned him. "You are... not a doctor." 

Archangel's mouth twitched as he made his uneven way inside. "No." He listened absently to the approach of familiar footsteps. _Careful. She's had enough frights for one day_. "Michael Briggs. The physician in charge said they'd removed the entire... infection. Whatever it was. I'm glad to hear you concur." He lifted an inquiring brow. "I'd be curious to know just what was it we did get. Given that it took a flame-thrower to kill the damn thing once we removed it." Lucky Winterhaven was prepared for weird emergencies.

__

Not luck, Archangel reminded himself, feeling a glow of satisfaction. He might have raised three kinds of hell with String over dragging Caitlin into Airwolf, but now he wouldn't trade the young ex-cop for a dozen of the CIA's trained killers. Her quick decision just might have given them the break to get to the bottom of Yates' disappearance. Not to mention saved this man's life.

"I believe it was a detachable neural tendril. Very like a hydra's nematocyst. Meant to aid in a pre-digestive process. I think." Ta'ra leaned back in her chair, sunset painting gold over her weary face. "I'm sorry, I know you must have no idea what that could be...." 

"I can make a guess." Marella stepped into the room, file folder under her arm and a tray of IV equipment in hand. "Sir. Results on the sample from _Santini One_ match the foreign tissue removed from Detective Breslin's injury. The lab also did a quick and dirty cross-check on the protein analysis. You'll never believe what came up as a tentative match." 

He took the file, flipped to the green-tabbed page. "The medusa H.E.A.T. drained out of the NYC reservoir?" 

"Similar," Marella nodded, laying out equipment on the bed table. "Which would tend to give credence to your translations of Herr Wilhelm's claim that she melted when wounded." 

"Damn! I'd hoped that was just raving." 

Ta'ra seemed to draw in on herself. "He's dead?" 

"Yes," Archangel answered frankly. If Caitlin and Airwolf were right, the analyst might as well know what they were up against. "Franz Wilhelm. Self-styled _Hexxenmeister_; in our terms, witch and werewolf hunter. A man with a positive gift for assaults, homicides, and mass havoc. He's killed no less than four innocent people that we know of, if you take drowning in the water test as proof of innocence. He'd have been in prison a dozen times over if not for certain connections with various intelligence agencies and an annoying tendency to skate through loopholes in European law. I know of at least three members of the German constabulary who will soon be visiting their favorite churches in scurrilous gratitude." He shrugged. "Apparently Dion got him in the chest. He died on the table, babbling about melting she-demons who tempt men with blood-stained flesh." 

"A man who sought monsters." Ta'ra managed an ironic smile. "Only this time, he found one." 

"Apparently," Marella nodded. "Preliminary findings from the bone fragments in Ms. Dion's apartment show distinct similarities to Yates' remains. And to the fragments in the cold cases you and Detective Breslin were working."

"Which is apparently what Yates - or rather, whoever or whatever _appeared_ to be Yates - was looking for," Archangel added. "We've tracked his recent accesses. He's been searching for cases like yours for the past week. I don't suppose you'd know why?" 

"Does it _matter?_" Determination flared in Ta'ra's gaze. "I must speak to the medical personnel in charge. The creature's toxin is _in_ Jack's system; it's collapsing his synapses no matter what I do. All these supportive measures won't work if we can't stimulate his cortex-" 

"None of the doctors here can clear the release of those drugs into your hands," Archangel said flatly, hands braced on his cane. 

"Technically speaking, they can't even admit they exist," Marella put in. "The compounds you're asking for are _supposed_ to be highly classified."

"Yes." Ta'ra winced. "I suppose they would be, here...." 

__

Here? Archangel concealed his suspicions. Better to wait until he had the results of Ms. Andulon's background check. And given that wasn't in Marella's pile of paperwork.... "Angel," he murmured, too low to hear, "Did Marella upload anything new?" 

__

No.   
Pilot Caitlin states registered passenger Marella has moved background check, Ta'ra Andulon, to secondary priority. First priority, analyzing unknown biological hazard.  
Pilots Caitlin and Hawke have expressed suspicion in regard to available info on Ta'ra Andulon. "Nobody's background is that empty." 

Blonde brows drew together; Ta'ra regarded him with sudden comprehension. "You're... one of the Lady's," she said softly. "Like Caitlin." 

Archangel smiled, covering a swift chill. "I assure you, I don't fly stunts, Ms.-"

"Please!" Ta'ra rose from her chair, beseeched him with empty hands. "Archangel. I know your bond is new; I can feel how young she is, how fragile your interconnections are. But you _know_ what it would be like to lose a companion's mind. I _can't_ lose Jack. Not now, not before we've even had a chance. I-" Tears glittered down her cheek; she turned away. "I've lost so many already...."

"You know," Archangel said softly, suspicion congealing into iron-hard conviction. He nodded to Marella. _When you have eliminated the impossible_....

"You brought it!" Ta'ra impatiently brushed off salt water, helped Marella add the orange fluid to the IV network. "Yet you said-"

"The doctors couldn't release it. I can." Archangel flipped the file to the red tab of classified medical results. "You'd better read this carefully. Even the best neural stimulant we have is highly dangerous. Dosage levels are critical. And I know of nowhere these drugs are prescribed medically." He met Ta'ra's gaze, level as a drawn sword. "Nowhere on Earth." 

~*~*~*~*~  
"Look, Detective Dion, last I heard this was Breslin's case-" the medical examiner made one last protest as he pulled the sheet off the body.

"He had an accident," the blonde shrugged, heels clicking over chill white tile. "I'll view." 

"Okay. Here we go. Cause of death...." The medical examiner eyed the silver hilt sticking out between pale ribs, snorted. "Gee, that's a tough one." He reached for an autopsy blade. 

"Aren't you going to pull it out?" 

__

Newbies. "Oh, sure," the examiner said dryly, bending over the corpse's thorax. "Take the knife out, screw up the wound track and your case six ways to Sunday. Just love to give the defense wiggle room, huh, Detect-"

Flesh flexed into red tendrils, wrapped his throat in a constrictor's grip. "I said," Dion snarled, "Take it _out_." 

He barely had breath to wheeze. "Wha- what-"

__

"Now!"

Gloved fingers fumbled over dead skin, gripped the silvery pommel. He pulled, silver sliding free in a gush of red that wasn't quite blood-

Dead eyes opened. Smiled, even as flesh and bone melted into a liquid flow of crimson that rushed over the examiner like an acid tide. 

He barely had time to scream. 

~*~*~*~*~  
Took a lot to get screams at the LA County Coroner's Office, Detective Lieutenant Victor Maldonado knew, hunched up with his revolver beside the last autopsy room door and wishing he had a horde of uniforms behind him. Any place you got drownings, stabbings, bodies stacked up like cordwood after the gangs had a hard night - well, people who worked here just didn't scream. 

And the poor sap in there... wasn't, anymore. 

Sweat tricking across his bald spot, Vic risked another glance through the small window in the door. _Man, I wish I'd skipped lunch_. 

The two red blobs were wiggling back into humanoid form, now; blonde hair squiggling into shape on one even as the other disgorged a rush of ragged bones. Blackened ivory snapped like kindling as it hit the tiled floor.

"Want some more?" Dion purred, voice just a touch gurgly. "I can find you another...." 

"Maybe in a little while." William Yates - or something that was pretending to be Yates, if he could believe Ta'ra's phone call - caressed her furry muzzle. "You have lovely tendrils." 

Dion giggled. 

__

Great. The monsters are dating. That's it. That is it. This is the last_ time I check up on one of_ your _bodies, Jack!_

No time for that. He had to think. Shoot them? No; the uniforms who'd checked out the call of shots fired at Dion's apartment had found Jack's bullets. Say what you want about Breslin, and sometimes he'd said a _lot_ about Breslin, Jack was a fair shot. No way would he have let that many rounds go and not hit his target. 

__

That's why you brought backup. Reluctantly Vic holstered his revolver, took out one of Ta'ra's pulse blasters. Not nearly the firepower of a pulse rifle, according to Jack, but you didn't need a trench coat to hide it, either. _So. Here goes_.

He slammed open the door, lighting the room with the high, ruby thrum of pulse fire-

The burned, smoking, _empty_ room. 

__

What the heck?

Vic quartered the seared room like the uniformed cop he'd once been, searching for any sign of life, any trace of the tentacled _things_ that had been in here. Bones, silver knife, remnants of clothing-

Running footsteps. "Vic!" 

The lieutenant lowered his borrowed blaster, muttering Italian maledictions under his breath as an all-too-familiar blonde sped through the doorway, hands out and empty. "Ta'ra. How-" 

"The passenger seat of a white Ferrari, I think. It was fast-" Quick eyes locked on something near the foot of the table. "There!" 

The lieutenant whirled on the glint, aim steady as it could be when his heart wanted to climb into his throat. Something small, quivering on the tiled floor. Something ivory, just tinged with crimson.

One lone, acid-etched tooth floated in a pool of red; gory fluid even now slipping into the round grate set into the tiled floor. A grate meant to catch the unspeakable liquids that sometimes overflowed from the coroner's work... which had apparently failed to catch something much, much worse. 

For a long moment Vic just stood there, toting up disasters. One coroner, toasted. One autopsy room, also toasted, with nobody to blame for it but him if other cops coming to the screams ignored common sense and looked at the facts. And the one detective he had who seemed able to tangle with weirdness and come out in one piece was currently flat on his back in some kind of government hospital.

And a pair of monsters had just - gone down the drain. 

__

Could things get any worse? 

"Come on!" Ta'ra seized his arm. "We've got to catch them!" 

__

I had to ask.

~*~*~*~*~  
"I could be home, helping my kid untangle my wife's spaghetti," Vic grumbled, barreling down the boulevard; glancing back at the thin traffic behind them before checking his street map. "Kind of an exercise in frustration, but at least you get to eat the problem. But no. I gotta be out here, in the middle of the night, chasing monsters with the department's resident illegal alien. Werewolves, no less. What's the matter, you two run short on extraterrestrial creeps?" His hand moved toward his turn signal; hesitated; he shook his head, drove past the exit. "Where is Jack, anyway?" 

"In competent medical hands," Ta'ra said firmly, holding onto that thin sense of _other_ they'd followed from the coroner's office. Cross-checking it against the map of L.A. storm drains she'd pulled from the glove box; like Jack, the lieutenant had never quite been able to rid himself of the fear they might have to hunt down a Xenomorph all over again. _Steady. I've done what I can; Jack would tell me himself to go_. "And I'm not certain these creatures are native to your planet. Though from the Internet research I was able to accomplish, they do sound akin to some of your old folklore... that could simply mean they've been present for some time. Their compounds appear similar to those found in certain terrestrial organisms, but your world has a diversity of biological and ecological systems I've never heard of elsewhere." 

"Hurray for the ecology. Competent medics, huh?" Vic snorted. "The same guys that dumped you out of a Ferrari and took off?" 

"I'm certain they had their reasons." Many of which might have to do with how she'd frightened Michael. 

Archangel would never say she'd frightened him, of course. Anyone in such a position of power in an Earthling intelligence agency - and that was precisely what he was, no matter how neatly he might skirt the question - could hardly admit he'd been so much as startled by a mere crime scene analyst. 

But while his thoughts might be closed, his emotions were clear - and terrified - enough. 

For a moment Ta'ra tried to place herself in his position. An Earthling, who'd lived all his life in one lone mind, deaf to all thoughts about him save what he deduced from words and gestures. Who likely thought of psychic abilities as Jack had first thought of aliens; an interesting, but ultimately fictional, concept. To go from that to suddenly finding yourself bound, one-of-many....

__

I can't imagine it, Ta'ra admitted silently. She was telepathic; she did miss the sense of being part of a greater whole, of being known and loved just as she was. Though Jack and Vic, and even Norton, in his own, alien way, filled some of those gaps. 

But she'd never taken a companion. She was still young, after all. _Though certainly not seven, Jack, really!_ She had decades to search out a good match, a mind that fit with hers like hand in hand, a life walking the same path. A love steady as a heartbeat; not the vivid, sunset riot of romantic passion painted by Earthling fiction, but joyous and subtle as waves at dawn. 

__

Mine. My friend. My help. My own. 

She'd felt it around Michael, around the others; though still new, fragile as cobweb. A far cry from the deep rivers she'd sensed between some of her own race.

__

Give them time. Hope they have _time_....

Vic sighed. "So. How do we stop the blood-drinking lovebirds?" 

Ta'ra frowned. "Many of its essential compounds would be detrimentally affected by silver. I suspect the one in the morgue was in some sort of... shock-induced stasis, I think. It must use _some_ internal organs, at least when it's in humanoid form; and a knife does tend to create massive trauma." 

The lieutenant rolled his eyes. "No, really?" 

"Couple that with your legends' claim that a slain werewolf may rise as a vampire, the strict injunction not to remove the stake from the heart until the corpse can be burned, and Michael's assertion that the tendril could only be properly dealt with via flame-thrower...."

"Great. We gotta torch these things. Just the thing to light up my night." Vic bit out a few Italian curses. "Tell me this isn't why you tossed those bottles from pathology in my trunk?" 

"If we can add those chemicals to petroleum in the proper proportions, it should exceed napalm in temperature," Ta'ra nodded. 

"Terrific." The lieutenant scanned the road. "You got any idea where we're heading?" 

"We're close." 

Vic implored the car roof. "Close as in miles, or close as in reach out and bite you?" 

"Under a kilometer." Ta'ra pointed them east, toward a wide driveway. "A... quarter of a mile?" 

"Great." The lieutenant pulled up to the slim bar blocking the drive, hauled out his wallet to snatch out bills for the teenager in the lighted booth. "Not enough I gotta hunt monsters, I have to pay admission...." 

__

Admission? Ta'ra glanced up from her map of the storm drains, toward the high hunting calls of the flying mammals Jack called _bats_, dark shapes of fur and wings chasing fluttering insects drawn to the flickering sign overhead.

__

Ventura Drive-In  
Double-header: **American Werewolf** and **Psycho  
**Welcome Alpha Theta Pi!

"Frat party," Vic grumbled, shaking his head at the raucous crowd of intoxicated young men, giggling bleached blondes with fake knives stabbed into skimpy outfits, and various grungy types in leather and wolf makeup gathered around a swarm of SUVs and Mercedes. He pulled into a space nearby, got out and locked his door. "I say we let the monsters eat them." 

"Lieutenant!" Ta'ra followed him out, shocked; he halfway _meant_ that. "You can't-"

"Hey, pretty lady." A blast of boozy breath; a heavy hand on her shoulder. A bombardment of vicious images, as the slimy creature that gripped her imagined himself inflicting himself on her in a multitude of unclean ways-

Three blows left him gasping and gagging in the dust; she drew away with a shudder, retreating behind Vic. _Jack was right. Human self-defense courses_ are _handy_.

Hand on the blaster in his pocket, the lieutenant glared down two smaller bozos who'd leapt to their fallen comrade's defense. "See what I mean - Ta'ra!" 

__

Crunch.

"Oh no." She gazed down at fragile, blackened ivory shattered under her feet. "Oh, no...."

"_Santa Maria_ - did you see this?" Vic demanded, snaring the nearest bozo. "Did you see what did this?" 

"Hey, chill, man." The young man in expensively torn jeans tried to pry Vic's hand off his collarbone. "It's all part of the party! _Garou_ rule!" 

Too late, Ta'ra caught the scent of spoiled meat, the whisper of _stalking prey_. 

Tentacles whipped around the med-tech's throat, dragged her back. She fought, uncaring how it might appear to the Earthlings mobbed about her; using all her kind's native agility to slip her living bonds. 

And failing. 

"Let her go!" Vic, blaster in plain sight now, aiming at the creature's center of mass. Only to jerk it around, just before a second furry form could come into arm's reach. Yates snarled, stayed just out of reach. 

"When you're the only ones who'll believe?" Ta'ra barely recognized Dion's voice from the tendril-wreathed muzzle by her ear. "The only ones Jack knew would follow us? To hunt us all down, even our brood, no matter what the cost?" A liquid chortle. "Go ahead. Fire. Light will never harm us. _You_ might give us indigestion, but your companion will make a fine brood-host...." 

Wind howled, tearing at Ta'ra's hair, ripping at tendrils with a wolf's cold fury. A shape of darkness and rotors rose over the rippling movie screen, lean and deadly and _hunting_ as a night-patterned shark. 

And a banshee wailed in Ta'ra's mind, keening for those it meant to slay. 

~*~*~*~*~  
"Chain-guns." 

"I don't see anything but people," Caitlin argued, watching their EM emissions like a hawk. The last thing they needed was hysterical Air Force commanders worried about a night strike on L.A.

"Check IR. Chain-guns. Now." 

"We gotta be _sure_, String," Dom stated, even as he armed weapons. "The Lady's good, but she ain't exactly a bloodhound!"

"Comes to mass destruction, she is."

__

Matrix scanner, chemical and radioactive "sniffer" sensors allow detection/tracking of NBC weapons, source components, construction sites, transport, Airwolf agreed. _Part of original Firm specifications: ability to locate and neutralize NBC threats.   
Psionic transceiver allows PKE detection. "Werewolf" previously identified as having low-level anomalous PKE signature.   
Cross-reference of PKE signature with unique biochemical markers provided by pilot Caitlin allows successful target location_.   
_Targets located._

String's eyes narrowed, fixed on the two inhuman creatures highlighted on Airwolf's tactical screens. And their unwilling hostages. "Let's clear out the bystanders." 

~*~*~*~*~  
Sand stung her eyes, hurled by the raging winds; Ta'ra tried to shield her face. Stars, the howl, the fury; the _will-to-slay_, cleaner and crisper than the pulsing hunger that held her. _Why won't it strike-_

Thunder and fire spat from the dark, missing by inches. She cringed from heated air, sensing the cold, crystal aim that guided heavy-metal slugs. Sensing how close she was to death. 

Yet not a round struck. 

__

What?

The gale continued to howl, shattering windshields, overturning SUVs in groans of tortured metal. A thick reek of gasoline whipped past her nose, there and gone in the punishing wind. 

And the pressure of other minds, other fears... retreated. Leaving her, and Vic, alone with the monsters.

Deliberate miss. _Deliberate_.

And in an instant, she knew what the wind-wolf's plan was. What it had to be. 

__

Stars - aim true! "Vic, _down!_" 

And fire thundered once more. 

~*~*~*~*~  
Vic picked himself off gritty asphalt as that howling wind backed off, shaking like he hadn't shook since he knew that psycho Eddie Fiori was loose with a blaster and a suit that stopped bullets. _What the hell was that?_

It was... sort of like a helicopter. It _looked_ like a helicopter, what he could see of it in the wavering light from the shredded movie screen; a flash of silvery blades, a shape of night and ivory vicious as a killer whale. 

But no chopper he'd ever seen could bowl over cars. 

Red oozed near his hands; Vic leapt back. Huge lumps of silver-gray metal dotted crimson liquid, slowing its flow. "They melt." 

"Come on!" Ta'ra yanked open his trunk, dashed bottles into the red blobs' path with frantic haste. "They won't be stunned long!" 

Stunned? That - that _thing_ overhead had just cut loose with military-issue artillery, and she said they were just _stunned?_ "Thought you said we had to mix this with gas!" 

"We have!" She snagged his hand. "Run!" 

"What d'you mean we-" He caught the reek of unleaded, rising now that the chopper was lifting away. Did a lightning estimate of just how many cars were about to go to that Great Junkyard in the Sky. And bolted. 

Ta'ra passed him effortlessly; stopped and turned, aiming true down her blaster barrel. Fired. 

Red lanced out from the alien weapon's muzzle, shattering night with a high shriek. Touched off flame and fury-

__

Ow. Trying to catch the breath asphalt had blasted out of him, Vic brushed fire-hot sweat out of his eyes and started assessing the damage. Four or five cars totaled, looked like the parking lot was catching fire, who knew how many dead or injured who hadn't run fast enough....

"Don't bother." Ta'ra, kneeling beside him. Barely even breathing hard. "They're coming back." 

He followed her gaze, just in time to catch a dark-on-dark movement in the night, a white gleam of launched fire-

__

Down!

Thunder shook the lot, shattering flame in a thousand pieces. 

Vic held onto Ta'ra, letting her shake against him. Wanting to shake himself. _Missile. That was a missile_. 

The banshee keen dimmed with distance, vanished.

__

Who throws missiles around in the U.S.?

Ta'ra gazed into the empty night. "I doubt they mean to allow us to ask." 

"You don't know?" 

"I couldn't read their minds," she said softly, barely audible over the crackling flames, the wail of sirens as someone finally woke up to the mayhem going on in their drive-in. "Which means... I may know who they are, after all." 


	4. Chapter 4

~*~*~*~*~  
"Hey, Jack." A high whistle, followed by a friendly pinch of beak on nose. "Up and at 'em, up and at 'em!" 

Jack winced, bringing up a hand to scratch the familiar white and yellow-crested head. "Norton, how many times have I asked Ta'ra not to let you out 'till I'm up...." His gaze fixed on the ceiling, and he froze. _Wooden beams?_

Definitely wood. And the air sure didn't smell like L.A. Pine; a hint of frying fish. Wood smoke. But not a trace of smog. _Where the hell am I?_

"Hey, you're up!" A young Amerasian teenager plopped onto the edge of his bed, keeping a tight grip on the collar of a blue-tick hound. "Great! Maybe now I can talk Tet out of eating your squab." Active hands scratched behind floppy ears. "When Uncle String said I'd need to watch him, he wasn't kidding!" 

"Wha-?" Jack managed, curling a protective right arm in front of his feathered friend. The left didn't seem to want to work too well; the light blue tee shirt somebody had dragged over his head didn't hide the swath of bandages curving up his arm toward his neck. And it ached, like someone had drawn a dull, hot poker from his forearm up into his shoulder. 

At least he could feel his fingers. _Ow_.

"Don't let him out of your reach," the teen went on cheerfully, dragging Tet out of the bedroom in his wake. "Sometimes the back door doesn't latch all the way and Uncle String says the eagle'd be on him in maybe five seconds. Hey! Uncle String! Uncle Michael!"

Norton fluffed up his crest, whistled the "Twilight Zone" theme. 

"You said it, buddy," Jack murmured. Sunlight through a small window, model jets on the shelves, a helicopter blueprint on the wall... where was he, the kid's bedroom? In that case, where _was_ this kid's bedroom? "How you doin', Norton?" 

"I'm good, Jack!" The cockatoo's eyes half-closed; he ground his beak gently together, familiar birdspeak for _Hi, glad to see you, happy to be here_. "How you doin'?" 

"Pretty good, buddy. Pretty good." _Considering it looked like bottom of the ninth an' two outs for a while there_, Jack thought. _Has Ta'ra got good timing, or what?_

"You can thank Caitlin for that." His favorite Martian walked through the doorway, smiling brighter than sunlight. "She was flying; I only told her where to find you." Ta'ra's smile turned impish. "She says she hopes our next lesson's a bit quieter." 

"Hey, baby!" Norton let loose with a perfect wolf-whistle.

"I was not thinking that," Jack said automatically. He lifted his left arm an inch off the colorful quilts someone had thrown over him. "Where are we? And what's with the mummy wrapping?" 

Ta'ra bit her lip, scratched Norton alongside his crest. "We're in a valley in the mountains, not too far from Van Nuys. Eagle Lake. And your arm...." She hesitated. 

"What?" He didn't like that flinch. Not one bit. "What about it?" 

"It- that was a _digestive_ tendril, Jack," she said reluctantly. "With the state of your medical technology...." 

"What she means to say, Detective, is that you're in for a considerable period of physical recovery." A cane tapped along polished hardwood; a white-clad man leaned on it, standing in the doorway. "There's going to be a certain amount of scarring, and by the time you're through with your rehabilitative sessions, you'll likely have called the therapists every foul name in the English language. That, I guarantee you." A smile curved his mustache; with a shock, Jack realized one lens of the man's glasses was permanently dark. "But you should recover most of your use of the arm. If you're willing to work at it." 

"Most." It was like a death knell. 

"Most," the stranger said firmly, as a man might shake a hysterical comrade by the shoulder. "Nothing that would force you to leave the department, even if you were still in uniform. And don't tell me I don't know how you feel." He gestured towards the dark lens. "I'm a pilot." 

He swept grandly out of sight; Jack let out a breath, feeling that strange intensity release him from its grip. "Whoof. Who was that masked man?" 

"Michael was not wearing a mask... oh." Mischief crept into Ta'ra's expression. "Sometimes I forget you're not familiar with empaths." 

"Empath? Him?"

"To a degree, yes. Though most of his sensitivity seems quite solidly aimed at his companions. You likely wouldn't have even noticed, if you weren't sensitive yourself." 

__

"What?" Him? Not a chance. Human or Xenomorph, reading minds only came to no good. "Never mind. Dion?" 

"We got her," Ta'ra said with a shudder. "We did get her. And her mate." 

"Mate?" _Oh, yeah. Oh, hell_. Jack swallowed dryly. "Somethin' tells me you better take this from the top." 

~*~*~*~*~  
"And both creatures were thoroughly destroyed," Michael finished, leaning against the cabin bar. Marella sat beside him, files ready to hand; String loitered behind the bar with a cool glass of water and a cooler gaze. Caitlin and Dominic were out of hearing range, unless he listened; they'd taken Le Van out with Tet, bearing in mind that his discussion with the two officers would likely go better without too many attentive ears. "We can only hope that if Yates' impersonator had to resort to such extreme measures to find a mate, that such creatures are highly rare." He shrugged. "I've told Lieutenant Maldonado he can cancel the APB. Now that we're certain both the werewolf's toxin and our treatment have cleared your system, we should be able to bring you back to civilization within a few days." 

Ensconced on String's couch with his bird, Jack groaned. "Aw, c'mon, Vic. Not another APB...." 

Archangel took that in with an arched brow. "Ah, yes. You have been the subject of more than one, haven't you?" 

Detective Breslin opened his mouth, evidently thought better of whatever he'd planned to say. "Long story. I know how _she_ got mixed up in this," he jerked a thumb toward Marella, gave her a respectful nod. "Nice ditz act. Would've snowed half of headquarters." 

"Why, thank you," Marella inclined her head. 

"But how did you?" Jack drove on.

Archangel gave him a minuscule shrug. "William Yates used to work for my agency." 

"Agency-" The detective stared at the snowy white of suit and dress. "You dress like _that_ and you're spooks?" 

"Distracting, isn't it?" Michael stifled a grin.

"Which would suggest that odd black helicopter is somehow involved with you," Ta'ra mused.

"What helicopter?" Three voices chorused. Marella's face was perfectly straight, but Michael caught a hint of sparkle in dark eyes. 

"That, would be a yes," Jack observed dryly, glancing at Ta'ra. "Sort of." 

Archangel lifted a skeptical brow. "And I suppose your partner isn't an illegal alien, Detective?" The blue gaze switched to Ta'ra. "Ms. Andulon. Presuming that is, indeed, your real name. The background Breslin and Lieutenant Maldonado created for you is quite good, but it won't hold up to a determined investigation. It certainly didn't hold up to ours." 

"Hey, wait a minute-" 

"It's all right, Jack." She regarded the spy almost as coolly. "What is it you want?" 

"Mostly, to warn you." Archangel's fingers flexed on the head of his cane. "I happen to be something of an expert on the more... esoteric technology available to the United States. Yours is noticeably beyond the cutting edge." He cast her a wry glance. "Be careful." 

"Mostly?" Jack eyed his paling partner, turned a glare on the spy. "What else?" 

"The Hivemind invasion shook every administration on this planet," Michael said bluntly. "If a foreign government - or, much as I hate to admit it, some factions of our own government - learned a source of highly advanced technology was available, they'd stop at nothing to obtain it." Pain creased his visible eye. "Anyone can be broken, Ta'ra. Anyone." 

Ta'ra nodded slowly, shivering. "I know."

"So I'm going to ask you something I have no right to," Archangel said softly. "Stay here. In L.A. Where I can cloak your background more thoroughly, and where my people can watch out for you." A wry smile crossed his face. "Most of them won't know what they are guarding... but they'll know you are important. Which itself will put you at risk." He met her gaze squarely. "I ask for the most precious thing you have: your trust." 

"And how do we know you're not one of the guys who'd be trying to squeeze something out of her?" the detective demanded.

"I can't deny I'd enjoy having access to the technological principles," Archangel admitted. "But I have a luxury not usually granted politicians, Detective Breslin. I have time." He set down his glass. "Or at least... as much time as the Hivemind will allow us." 

"They will be back," Ta'ra acknowledged. "Last I knew, they avoided this sector of space; we patrol it, if irregularly, and while our fleets are smaller, we can match them weapon for weapon. They've no taste for an even fight. But now they know this planet harbors sentient life they can transform into their own kind... and you've no concerted psychic defense to hold them off." 

__

An alien, Michael thought. _I'm speaking with an actual alien_. Well, add that to the list of federal laws he'd broken recently. 

"So are you here as a cultural observer, or...?" Marella arched a questioning brow. 

"It was - an accident," the analyst admitted. 

"Alien monster. Prison ship. Things go boom," Jack said shortly. "And she landed in my crime scenes." 

Ta'ra nodded. "The long-range transmitter on the _Andulon_ was destroyed, even before we crashed it into your Pacific Ocean. And while you may not have many active psychics, this planet's overall psychokinetic field is quite strong. In essence, they've no way to find me through the static. Or even know I'm alive."

"Can you build a transmitter?" 

Michael watched their start with a hidden smile. Amazing, how people could forget Hawke was in the room. It was his stillness, more than anything; quiet silence, ready to act in an instant.

"We've been trying," Ta'ra admitted. 

"But she's a med-tech officer, and I'm a detective," Jack added. "It's not like we can get spare parts at Radio Shack." Suspicion rang through his tone. "Why?" 

"Our peoples have a common enemy." Rising to leave, Michael spread an empty hand. "I'm not asking you to speak for your race, Ta'ra. But given the circumstances, they might want to speak to us. And I'm fairly certain you'd like to speak to them. If our technology's up to it." An impish smile creased his face as he paused by the back door. "As I said, I am rather knowledgeable in esoteric technology."

"Think they'll go for it, sir?" Marella asked under her breath as String made sure the latch caught before following them down the path to the lake. 

"I have no idea," Archangel said frankly. "Ask me what a Russian would do. Ask me about a Slav. We're dealing with a completely alien culture." He squinted into the lake-glitter. "I hope so." 

~*~*~*~*~  
"Think we can trust them?" 

"To a degree," Ta'ra allowed, considering the tall, flamboyant man who'd stalked out the door. And his quiet, subtler companion; for Hawke _was_ Archangel's, certain as they were both their Lady's. "They are quite serious, Jack. In the wrong hands, I could be a source of great danger to your people." 

Jack _hmph_ed, shifting on the couch. "Hate to say it, Ta'ra, but we were killing each other a heck of a long time before you ever brought pulse rifles on the scene. Something about being human." He squirmed again, shifting Norton off his bandaged arm. The cockatoo clucked and muttered, nibbling at the hand that scratched under his feathers. "Unless you've found a way to get around that." 

"No," she admitted softly. "No, we haven't. We're more peaceful than many of your nations, so far as I can determine... but we still kill." The ability to thought-process might allow them to understand another's viewpoint, but that didn't mean they'd agree with it. 

And even with all their safeguards, the mind was such a complex creation. Psychopaths did crop up among her people. Not so many as the two or three percent some American scientists estimated among Earthlings... but still, more than enough. 

She'd known precisely why Jack feared Eddie Fiori, long before the murderer had taken his first shots at them. She'd fully agreed with Vic's order for the frightened cop to vacate the area while the LAPD carried out their search. There was a limit to how much you could predict the actions of one with no morals to leash their actions, and the lieutenant had no wish to dangle Jack as live bait.

They'd ended up doing almost exactly that, but that had been her fault. If she hadn't left a blaster unsecured....

"Hey." Jack's voice was soft, as he shifted a comforting hand to her shoulder. "We got him, right? We got him." 

__

But I didn't say anything about Eddie.

"What do you _mean_ you didn't - oh, no. Oh, no." The detective shook his head, alarm rolling off him like water. "Ta'ra, I can't-" 

She snared his hand before he could pull away. _Jack. It's all right_. "There wasn't time to try and duplicate some of my own medications. We had to use what was locally available. It was far less specific than I would have liked, but it should wear off. You're simply going to be more sensitive than usual for a while." She nodded toward the expanse of empty forest out the window. "Which is why we're in, how do you say it here, the middle of nowhere?" A tentative smile curved her lips. _Just hold me. Please? We came so close to losing you_.

Jack shivered. "Feels warm," he got out, inching nearer. "Different." 

Ta'ra leaned her head on his shoulder, basking in the comfort of a familiar mind. Slid her palm along his as she would one of her own people; as she had the first time they'd embraced, trying to forget the horrors they'd seen, the loss of her people and his partner. Flexing hand against hand, touching fingertip to fingertip- 

Stopped, eyes wide, as familiar fingers shifted against her own. There was an echo of her touch, a clumsy effort to match emotion with her own....

Suspicious spots of red rose on her partner's cheekbones. "I should stop, huh?"

"No." _Don't you dare_. She drew him back to her with a kiss, reveling in the layer of touch on touch and emotion on emotion. Clumsy, perhaps; but surely no worse than her first kiss, decades ago. Some things just needed practice. 

And it was bright, and welcome, and _this-is-my-friend_....

"Whoa." Jack drew in a deep breath as they ended the touch. "Now I _know_ the guys'll be waiting on the beach for this invasion."

Chuckling, she bounced a throw-pillow off his nose. "You are _incorrigible_." 

Jack affected a wounded look. "Who, me? I just-" 

A furry whisper of curiosity. Something... skirting the edges of thought, like a bat's high call to locate obstacles. 

"What was that?" 

"I'm not certain." Ta'ra reached back toward that feather-light brush of another's thoughts. _Who are you?_

Classified.  
No hostile intent.   
Considering alliance Michael Archangel/Hawke/Santini Air?

Jack was peering out the windows, as if he could see through trees to wherever that wary touch was lurking. "Don't tell me that's human." 

"No," Ta'ra said softly, feeling the lightning-flicker of alien thoughts. "Not even one of my species." 

But young. And somehow... innocent. _Lady?_

Yes.

"_That's_ tied up with a guy like Briggs?" Jack shook his head, amazed. "How?" 

A feathery giggle. _Classified_. 

Jack raised a dark brow. "Anything about you that isn't classified?" 

Another giggle. _No_.

"Terrific." 

Ta'ra frowned, thinking. "I don't suppose, if we did ally with your companions, they'd be willing to tell us who you are."

Indecision. _Don't know.  
Possible.  
Michael Archangel unlikely to provide information on "Lady" if asked now.   
Willing to wait?_

Ta'ra glanced at her partner. Stars, she wanted to talk to her people. Wanted it so badly. "This is your planet, Jack." _You know its dangers better than I_.

"Comes to guys like him, I don't know that much more." Jack finger-combed back dark hair. "But if it comes down to it... least the guy's up-front about what he wants. And what other people might do for what _they_ want." He glanced toward the lake. "Don't suppose you'd clue us in before the ax came down?" 

__

Michael Archangel would warn of danger if at all possible.   
Willing to extract from enemy hands, arrange alternate identities if necessary.   
Hawke willing to do so even if alliance refused.  
You are not the enemy.

"Thank goodness for small favors," Jack muttered, ruffling white feathers. Norton whistled, rubbed his head against Jack's neck. "Ta'ra, is she-?" 

"Quite dangerous. Yes." That she could sense clearly, in the casual way Lady had classified them as _not-enemy_, with an echoed image of the werewolves counter-pointing just what _enemy_ was.

Yet innocent. Like one of her own race's children. Like the young girl they'd rescued almost a year ago; frightened, telekinetic Tori....

Jack's hand touched her shoulder. "You think she's some kind of - secret government project?" 

Ta'ra shrugged. "I can't think of what else she could be. Which implies your government _is_ working with psychic abilities...." The implications hit like a hammer. "And we might be able to help after all." 

"Ah... you lost me." 

"It's part of our history. Ancient history, for us, but still - Jack, we _know_ what happened when our people first began to thought-process. The trials, the cultural upheavals, the new laws we had to write into our legal system." Sitting still wasn't enough anymore; she jumped from the couch, paced the wooden floor. "Our government might not want to give you access to our technology - and no offense, Jack, but for the most part I'd have to agree with them-" 

"But they're not going to want eight billion more Hivemind in their backyard, either," the detective finished her thought, leaning forward. "So... what? You think they'd send in advisors? Psychic special forces?"

"I don't know what they'd do," Ta'ra said honestly. "But whatever Lady is, she's not like anything I've ever heard of on my planet. Somehow you've created something my people don't have. Something that might help us." An old, old knot of tension loosened, even as her mouth went suddenly dry. For as long as she'd known, her people had lived with the threat of Hivemind attacks. If they could find an ally, a _true_ ally.... "We have a _reason_ to make contact, Jack." 

"What, you wanting to phone home isn't enough?" But the shadows in blue eyes told her he knew the answer to that. "So, you want to tell the guy in the white suit now, or let him squirm a few days?"

"He probably already knows."

"How the hell-" Jack swore, gaze flicking around the room. "He bugged the place?"

"He didn't have to," Ta'ra answered blithely. "Some of your people really aren't like mine, Jack. Michael's people can hear quite farther than normal." She frowned, thinking. "Though that amount of physical difference from your species' norms seems unlikely... I wonder if it's a form of clairvoyance?" 

"You mean - they were listening the whole-" Jack turned red. 

Ta'ra chuckled softly. "They are covert operatives, Jack. I'm certain they've heard worse." 

"Like that's supposed to make me feel better?" Jack flung up his hand, missing Norton's inquisitive beak by inches. "Any _other_ bombshells you want to drop about these guys?" 

She smiled. "I think they thought about hiring you."

"Great." Jack rubbed his head, stabbed a finger at air. "Thanks, but no thanks. Transmitter first. Then you scare 'em with your medical tests. I like my job." He glanced at the lake. "Speaking of...."

"From what I could pick up from Marella, Archangel intends to arrange for Franz Wilhelm to be charged with the murders in Germany, and Dion with those here in America," Ta'ra said soberly. "Including Wilhelm's." 

Jack grimaced; thought about it, shook his head grudgingly. "Dion must've been a real person," he pointed out. "Yates was. Before that _thing_ took his place." 

"Yes. They've traced her. But Dion's relations are dead. There are... less people to be hurt."

"Guess that's the best we can do," the detective admitted. "Least until the government gets off its ass and lets people know the aliens are out there. I just..." He lifted his shoulders, winced. "I'm a cop, Ta'ra. I'm supposed to catch guys who break the law. Not be one."

Ta'ra wet her lips, chose her words carefully. She'd seen this coming not long after she'd realized she was stranded on this planet. In all honesty, she'd seen it the moment she asked for his help; the dichotomy that had to come between the law he served and the people he'd sworn to protect. A choice she'd forced on him, because _she_ had no other choice, because there was no other way to ensure the Xenomorph would not engulf this planet in a wave of blood and death.... 

"It's not your fault, Ta'ra." A quiet, tired smile. "I knew what I was doing when I let you out of those cuffs." 

"It is my fault," she contradicted. "At least in part. But Lieutenant Maldonado has always understood that your goal is to protect, rather than prosecute. And he believes in you." She glanced at him awry. "Though Michael said something about being glad you weren't - a Detective Ellison?" 

"How'd a spook run into Cascade's Cop of the Year... never mind, I don't want to know." Jack whistled, drawing an echo from Norton. "Man, that must've hurt. Word on the grapevine is, Ellison's stiffer than a-" he cut himself off.

"Corpse left on ice ten days?" Ta'ra finished the thought, amused. Police officers had such _interesting_ turns of phrase. 

"I was not... well, maybe I _was_ thinking that...." 

She laughed, held him close. Moved her head aside as Norton nibbled her hair. Another night of death and fire; another brief calm before weeks upon weeks of nightmares, flinches, tears in the night. 

But they were alive. Alive. 

"We got them, Jack," she whispered, leaning into the warmth of that familiar mind. "We did get them."

~*~*~*~*~  
Translations from German:   
_Unheimlich_ - weird, unearthly.  
_Verdamment!_ - Damn it.

A/N: Monsters of Hollywood films bear little resemblance to their folkloric origins. Legendary werewolves do _not_ pass lycanthropy to their victims by biting; in fact, some European court records of "werewolves" (who, based on the accounts we have, were probably psychopathic serial killers) mention victims devoured "as if by a wolf", and only bring up the charge of shape-changing as an afterthought. Likewise, folkloric vampires are often not affected by sunlight. Some in central Europe were thought to live an amphibious existence, sleeping in a pool of blood inside their grave. 

__

Something is Out There originally aired in the summer of 1988.

An inner-city detective's investigation of a series of hideous murders uncovers a pair of intergalactic survivors; the last med-tech from the prison ship _Andulon_, and the shape-changing Xenomorph who escaped her, who's attempting to clone itself to take over the planet.

In each murder, the victim seems to have been hit by an exploratory operation done within split seconds. At every scene, the cop (Jack Breslin, played by Joe Cortese) sees the same young woman (Ta'ra - Maryam d'Abo). Jack pursues, discovering (the hard way) she has inhuman agility and carries a weapon that emits a beam of raw energy. She escapes, but he finds a piece of equipment she dropped. When she searches his apartment he catches her. She talks him into taking her to her shuttlecraft in the desert and explains she was a med-tech officer on a prison ship carrying a dangerous creature, a Xenomorph - a murderous alien shape-changer. Despite her society's best precautions, it took control of a prison warder and the other prisoners' minds. After killing most of the ship's occupants, it escaped to Earth in a shuttlecraft.

Joining forces, they track the Xenomorph. After close shaves Ta'ra deduces it hasn't found the technology it needs on Earth and has returned to the _Andulon_. She and Jack follow, after having let Jack's boss, Lieutenant Victor Maldonado, in on her secret. Eventually they corner the Xenomorph while it's taking over the dead bodies of the other prisoners. In the end, they try to destroy it by crashing the ship into one of Earth's oceans. 

Escaping from the resulting explosion in the Xenomorph's prison cell, they believe the creature destroyed. Ta'ra is now stranded on Earth; Jack offers to help her find her feet.

__

Something Is Out There started as a 4-hour TV mini-series. (Released as a twin cassette video movie in Australia.) It was successful enough to be followed by a full TV series; unfortunately, though the characters were believable and the cast excellent, the series was up against _Beauty and the Beast_ and cancelled after only six weeks. (Though eight episodes were made. The last two were shown in the U.K., Australia, and New Zealand, but not in the U.S. Anyone have copies?) Like the _X-Files_, the series dealt with aliens, the paranormal, and government cover-ups, and teamed a strong scientific female character with an offbeat male cop. Though Jack was a _lot_ more practical than Mulder... and a lot _less_ likely to leave his partner out of the loop when trouble was heading their way.

Stranded on Earth, Ta'ra moved in with Jack, posing as his cousin. Cleared by Vic of various charges (the Xenomorph racked up one heck of a body count; as Vic put it, "I got enough dead scientists to put a dent in the test tube market!"), Jack returned to work. Also thanks to Vic, he kept getting the department's weirdest cases, which, with Ta'ra's help, he usually solved. (Though not without lots of comic cultural misunderstandings between Ta'ra, Jack, and anyone else in range. Try explaining the Grand Canyon to an alien. A "big hole in the ground". Oh yeah.)

And Ta'ra's mashed potatoes _did_ set fire to Jack's wall.


End file.
